


Not Meant to Be

by LadyJaeCee



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Dark Inquisitor, Gen, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Lots of OCs - Freeform, Torture, Tranquil, flirtations, lots of elves, perhaps relationship later, tranquil pov, what if au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-30
Updated: 2015-05-10
Packaged: 2018-03-26 08:54:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3844843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyJaeCee/pseuds/LadyJaeCee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some people weren't meant to be heroes. But gods are fickle and heroes can be made through fire, suffering, and blood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My attempts at writing. The Lavellan siblings are a tight knit bunch full of honor and heart, for the exception of the youngest. What if the hero wasn't very good at all? What if everything he cherished was taken from him? What sort of hero would he be? (Feedback is greatly appreciated. I've never really posted anything before this my first step into this...so constructive criticism would be helpful. Also I have no beta so 'here be errors'.)

 

 

 

_'Da'len, we are glad you are doing well. After hearing what happened at Haven your father nearly passed into the void. While we are glad you are safe, I must relay some unfortunate news. Your siblings have been missing for months. We had not expected to hear from them while they were traveling, but too much time has passed. The guide that was to take them to Haven has vanished.'_

  
"It's only going to make the anxiety worse if you keep reading it." Iron Bull's dulcet voice rumbled down Assad's back. "Why don't you hand it to me for a while?"

Assad turned a cold stare to the Qunari spy and tucked the letter back into the fold of his duster. He was not a child that needed his hand held. No one could judge him for being apprehensive about finding his siblings. The letter arrived during the first few months of settling in at Skyhold. Two more months had passed before his Spymaster had unearthed some leads. Unfortunately, the majority of the trails were cold. Nothing but empty storehouses with a few corpses. The search had turned up nothing on his siblings and marks on his map were dwindling. If they didn't find them here, it could be months before they found new information.

The group dismounted at the bottom of the hill and quietly approached the farmhouse. It had been clear that no livestock or crops had been tended here in ages. The fence surrounding the property was rotten and in disrepair. Fallen slats sprouted strange wildflowers through termite consumed holes. Some equipment lay discarded in the middle of the field, blackened with rust. Assad could see no guards or any sense of activity from their position. In fact, beyond the sounds of the forest he could sense no movement or voices at all.

He stepped swiftly through the underbrush and approached the side of the hovel. Varric joined him but Cassandra and Bull remained further back, awaiting the signal to charge. The barn doors were chained shut with thick iron links. It only took a moment for Varric to work the lock into submission but by the time the chain had uncoiled, nothing had changed. No alarms, no guards.

Assad straightened his stance and sighed heavily, signaling the warriors to move forward. Iron Bull nudged the doors open and they swung desperately clinging to their hinges. Crossing the threshold they met a familiar scene. Scant furniture, abandoned weapons, iron cages, and the smell of decay. Empty and abandoned, like all the others. However, the pungent aroma was stronger here and carried a sour note.

"Sorry Boss."  

The walls held scars from blade marks and fire. Some of the stone had been completely obliterated and shoddily patched with scrap wood. As they continued further in, they found more signs of violence. Warped metal twisted cages open and half charred guards were slumped together. Assad stepped closer to investigate the cadavers. Fire had burned all distinguishing marks on the clothing.  He couldn't tell if this was a uniform at all. More than likely, these men were mercenaries and had no affiliation to anyone but themselves. Black char coated most of the exposed skin. The remaining flesh had barely begun to discolor and the exposed meat was still relatively pink. Oddly, no maggots or scavengers had attempted to feast on the body. Instead, choosing to gorge themselves on the contents in the cages.

Assad examined the scorch pattern on the wall. The marks were from controlled bursts and confirmed this was magic based fire, not a fallen a brazier. On further inspection, the warped doors, appeared to have been an attempt to free prisoners rather than a result of rage or heat. This fight was not an outburst, it was an escape.

" _Isa'ma'lin, asa'ma'lin ea amahn_." he whispered to himself. "My siblings are here or they were here."

"How can you tell?" Cassandra squinted her eyes at the blackened wall.

"The cages were opened. If they were here, they would have taken anyone they could."

Assad continued further, turning the corner and acclimating to the pungent scent of rot and excrement. Hope tightened in his chest. Despite trying to fight the urge, his mind had already raced ahead of him. Normally, Priya would be the one who hung her heart on such scant hopes. Ever the optimist and dreamer, she believed in the impossible. He had always been the pragmatist and yet, here he was, desperately latching on to the idea they had freed themselves. That Jusik and Priya were making their way to Skyhold and they had ferried as many as they could to safety.

The bodies in this block of iron boxes were whole. No longer chunks or clearly decayed skeletal bundles, but full bodies. The prisoners were badly scared, some missing fingers, others branded and burned. Something fuzzy brushed the air. No, not fuzzy. It was something twisted and sick that vibrated through him like the sound of a disturbed hive. The sensation was close but not oppressive and the way it turned in his stomach felt familiar...like it did at the conclave. Assad pushed the thought from his mind and forced down the nagging doubt bubbling in his gut.

"Assad?" The voice was barely above a whisper.

He froze.

His heart quickened as his breath stopped. He could feel his companions' eyes on him, silently questioning the abrupt stop. They hadn't heard it? Of course they hadn't. He assured himself, it was just hopeful imagination playing tricks on him. His siblings were out there somewhere. He saw the signs, there was an escape. This was just excitement at the prospect of seeing them soon, nothing more. 

"Brother?" It came again, a little louder. "Is that you?"

Assad's heart dropped and sorrow welled within his chest threatening to burst.

"Jusik?"

"Down here!" Jusik's voice cracked and broke into a wet cough.

Assad burst into a sprint, hopping over debris and gaps in the floorboards, weaving through rows of filthy cages. The hum grew stronger and there was no denying the sickness that coated his skin. Assad grit his teeth and continued to run. His lungs started to burn and his breath grew short but he forced his legs to move faster. He couldn't break down now. Not when he had become Inquisitor, not when he had finally found his family. Everyone expected--needed him to be a pillar of strength, even in the face of all this. He would not break, no matter what they found, he could not despair.

He wrapped himself in a barrier and vaulted over the railing to the ground floor. He could hear the clattering of armored footsteps fall short behind him.

"Inquisitor!" Cassandra called after him, following his title with a curse.

Assad could not wait. They would have to find their own way down. The outer layer of the barrier shattered on impact and he dispelled the rest once on his feet. The basement was worse than the entrance. Blood, rust, and filth stained the walls in morbid discolored streaks. The buzzing had grown into a loud humming chorus. Amidst the muck, clusters of red lyrium bloomed and climbed the walls like garden weeds. Stout chunks burst through cages and connected into larger groupings.

He danced away from the lyrium, trying to shake its slick from his body. The basement looked like a kill floor. He had seen diagrams of such places only those were more humane, cleaner than this. A web of chains hung above dangling wickedly sharp hooks stained with rot and rust. The stone floor was moist with the same sludgy mixture and peppered with white writhing maggots.

Assad pressed the back of his hand against his nose and mouth, trying not to breath in the stench. No matter how he breathed he could not shake the feeling of illness and corruption from the thrumming garden of lyrium or the scent of decay around him. Assad stepped carefully to avoid the large puddles and navigated the maze-like stacks of crates, cages, and hanging hooks. Somewhere above him, Cassandra kicked down a door and proceeded downwards. Her loud descent, quickened his pace. After frantic weaving the rows finally cleared and exposed a small corner, with a hanging body.

"Creators..." he murmured.

Bile coated Assad's tongue as he took in the grotesque sight of his brother.

"Be careful with your breath,  _isa'ma'lin_." Jusik gave him a garish smile of blood and cracked teeth. "I don't have any medicine for you." 

Even in this state, Jusik was still worrying about others.

"What have they done to you?" the words found their way out in a horrified gasp.

Jusik's fingers bent back wrong and the bones in his sword hand were completely obliterated. One of Jusik's eyes had been badly damaged, allowed to fester and puss over. His captors had burned the vallaslin from his face and the portion of his teeth that weren't cracked were missing. The muscle of his once honed body was nothing more than pallid loose skin and bone, discolored with disease and dried blood. The proud magnificence of the man he admired was reduced to this suspended waste. Assad reached up to cut his brother down, hands quivering and eyes burning.

"Don't! Please, it hurts less this way." Jusik stopped him.

"What happened?"

"We were on our way to join you at Haven." Jusik frowned. "We took a ship and then...They gave us something. I can't remember it all...too much has happened. We weren't the only ones. Some were sold to slavers. Those too old or weak were killed and thrown overboard. Priya set fire to one of the ships and we almost got away but they had templars. They moved us a lot. Did things to us." Jusik's eye began to leak. "Sometimes they put us in the pit, made us fight: dogs, bears, monsters, each other. They bet on us.  _Used_  us. That crystal...Creators, Assad. We tried...Priya...I tried..."

Jusik's tired body shook as he sobbed, his broken face distorting with grief and shame. Only a flicker of his brother's former self remained, the rest swallowed up by disfigurement and horror. How could this happen? Assad couldn't fight the hot tears that spilled from his eyes.

"I'll take care of them." He hushed his brother. "It's going to be fine. I'll find them."

"It's too late. They've scattered. This is a storehouse for those who can't fight anymore. I haven't seen anyone in days." Jusik's voice wavered. "It's almost too kind to see you. Impossible, in fact. Maybe I'm finally dying. You can't be real. How could you be?"

"It's me. I'm here." Assad touched his leg and felt nothing but waxy skin and bone. "Let me get you down, I'll heal you..."

"No! No. I  _can't_." Jusik cried. "If you're real, please...kill me. End this, let me rest."

"Don't say that! I can heal you. I'm not alone, I have resources. The best healers in Thedas, we'll get you cleaned up and get a hot meal in you..." Assad murmured and started to pull him down. "You're safe now and I'm going to--"

"Kill me." Jusik pleaded. "Assad, please kill me. Kill me, kill Priya...please. You don't know what they did. The things they did...please brother."

" _Ar'din nuvenin na'din_." Assad covered his wet face with a shaking hand. "I don't want to kill you."

Tears burned his vision as he focused on the filthy stone. Jusik began a soft, pleading mantra. 'Please Assad. Please kill me.' Assad had spent his adolescence chasing after Jusik, wanting to be him. Jusik was patient, intelligent, good natured, and strong. The strongest in the clan. He believed in people and they loved him in return. Slow to judge, quick to aid, fair in his hand. Everything that Assad wasn't. This was not how a man met his end. Jusik was destined to go out in a blaze of glory, fighting for what he believed in, fighting for someone, not begging. Not at the hands of his unworthy brother.

Assad frowned and formed an icicle above his palm. The relief in his sibling's carved face was almost too much to bare.

"Be at peace, brother."

With a flick of his wrist the shard plunged through Jusik's ribcage. A harsh breath escaped his brother's body and then the tension released from his starved limbs. Jusik's light finally snuffed out. Another offering to this wretched place. Assad bowed his head and grit his teeth as sorrow and rage knotted in his stomach.

"Kid..." Varric's voice was hoarse. Assad slid his eyes away from his brother's corpse and met the rogue's gaze. The dwarf swallowed visibly and retraced a few steps. "We found another survivor."

"Show me."

A frail woman sat in the center of the small room, there were marks around her neck from the discarded leather collar. The manacles on her ankles were broken but still remained fastened. Cassandra stepped away, back hugging the wall, and would not meet his gaze. The fire from her earlier demolition had faded into remorse. Iron Bull crouched beside the woman, murmuring something but keeping his hands visible and relaxed. Varric's coat draped over her tanned flesh. Her skin appeared sallow in the candlelight, scars, burns, bruises mapped every inch of her body. But she suffered no broken bones. Assad squeezed his eyes shut and steadied himself. It hurt to see her so vulnerable and fragile. The muscle on her legs were wasted but not to the point where flesh hung.

"Priya..." her name left his mouth in a tight breath.

Her head turned and whatever remaining whisper of hope cracked and sharpened into blades. Her face was thin, eyes sunken in. Mythal's markings were burned from the top of her cheekbones to her temples. The graceful points of her ears were cropped in jagged shapes that shorn the right ear shorter than the left. The cuts to her cartilage were scabbed and infected. She looked wrong, like a malformed human. They erased her, stripped her heritage and culture, then they cut her soul.

"Assad." Her voice was not her own, but the sunburst's brand. "You are here."

"They made you tranquil."

He had learned more about the Right of Tranquility during his time in the Hinterlands. Squashing the war between rogue mages and templars had been tiresome, but enlightening work. Perhaps if situations had been different he would have taken up a staff next to those so-called apostates.

Tranquility was meant to be a last resort for unstable mages. But to most shems was all mages were unstable. The fear of magic was visceral, like lightning must have been to their primitive ancestors. There were many accounts of templars abusing this punishment and condemning innocent mages to life time of feigned existence. Tranquility cut the deepest part of a person, emptied out everything, and left a living shell to wander. No magic, no dreams, no being.

His sister had always been wild, like her magic. Untamed, undisciplined but beautiful. Priya's imagination was insatiable. Her vivid stories always entertained and broke the monotony of traveling. But that was all gone now. Her zest, laughter, and wicked tongue, obliterated.

"Yes. It made me more manageable." She explained. "There were too many failed escapes, we tried to get everyone out. Then they made it harder to get to Jusik, started to punish him when I acted out. When they blinded him, I set fire to the first floor. But they didn't brand me until I tore off a man's testicles."

"Why didn't you escape with the others? You could have found me. I would have helped." Assad knelt beside her, searching for a spark anything of her former self.

"How could we leave them behind to suffer?"

Assad lowered his head and clenched his fists around the collar of Varric's jacket.  Fucking idiots. Fucking blighted idiots. Of course, they would put the lives of others before theirs. Of course, they would have endured all these atrocities to protect one another, to shield the others. Altruism, heroism to the point of stupidity. Why hadn't the shem god marked them? Didn't the mantle of 'Herald of Andraste' fit them better? Wasn't she the sort of god that desired such champions? Either of his siblings would be willing to die for such a cause and it would be one worthy of their efforts. They would have inspired others to follow. They could have shaped Thedas for a Golden Age, uplifted the elves, sealed the rifts between people not just the sky. 

"Have you come to kill me?" Priya stared expectantly.

Assad looked at her burned clan markings as Jusik's words stabbed at the back of his head. 'Kill me, kill Priya.'

"No, I'm taking you home." Assad removed his overcoat and draped it over Varric's.

"I do not require a second coat."

"Please wear mine instead." He exchanged the coats and smoothed his hands down her arms, trying to stir some heat into her cold skin.

"You should not take me home. It would trouble our father and I would not like to cross the ocean again."

"We're going to Skyhold where no one will hurt you."

"That is impossible. You cannot make such a promise. It would be easier to kill me."

Assad grit his teeth. "I will not lose both of you."

His sister traced the grief on his face and accepted his words. "As you say. I cannot stand on my own."

"I got her Boss."

Assad counted exactly thirty paces before he rained a hail of fire upon the building. The fire danced and roared as large chunks of flaming rock crashed into wood and stone. His rage fed the flames and twisted the shapes into hungry beasts that curled and consumed.

His sister felt small and light against him as they rode toward camp. She had gone days without food and immediately polished off his waterskin. But barely touched the food. Priya hardly blinked and did her best to take in the passing scenery. No matter how many assurances he gave, she would not close her eyes to rest. 

They rode in heavy silence. But he could feel Cassandra's thoughts needling against his skull. It was wiser to leave the structure standing. Inquisition forces could comb the area, search for clues, evidence, something. But Assad didn't care. He couldn't burn it from Priya's mind but he would blight it from the land. One less tether to bind her. There were other ways to find these rats and he would find them. He would gather and cart them to Skyhold or perhaps some place dark and damp. He would show them the benevolence they showed his kin. They would know the depths of his abilities, why their shem god chose him instead of his siblings. If Andraste wanted a champion of fire, she would have it.

 

 

 

  


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work has been just a huge creative challenge. I wanted to attempt to tell some of the story from a tranquil's pov and not just have people be sad at them. No beta, all problems. Feedback appreciated.

Before the smell of lyrium and cooked skin burned in her nostrils, the last emotions she felt was a violent storm of rage and despair.

An overwhelming shock of pain and ice flooded through her skull and shot through her body. Then the world felt different. The abuse continued but the world felt different. They bound her, burned her face, and took her ears. She tried to pull at her magic and found nothing. Power swirled behind the lyrium barrier, abundant and useless. One of the men strung her ears on a necklace. He would pet them like a prize, idly fingering the pointed tips when he spoke. He liked to watch the ears slap against her face when he fucked her.

It was a grotesque mockery. Before the brand, Priya would have sent them to the void with a blaze of gore and fire. But now the world was different.

 

It had been seven months, two weeks, and three days since Assad rescued her from the basement and brought her to Skyhold.

In contrast to the rotted farmhouse, Skyhold was full of life. Grass grew from cracks in walls and the trees along the grounds rarely shed their splendor. The cold air that whipped over the mountains never thread its harsh fingers through the keep's walls. Even the evening chill felt warmer than it should.

Past lives hummed and reached out through the stone. Elves had once held this place, along with many others. Blood, life, death, history leaked through the foundation of the keep. Priya had never experienced anything like this sort of magic. She often found herself running her hands along the rocky walls, testing every new area, feeling the different frequencies. Some places had no reaction at all. These tremors only hinted at the wealth of the information that lay within. If she were still a mage, there might have been more information to glean. But the sunburst brand on her forehead walled off access to anything further. These voices would remain unheard.

The mark may have took her dreams but Priya retained her memories.

Remembering was bizarre and muted, somehow. Priya could point to any scar and recall with perfect clarity their origin. She knew which scars were from short blades, the poker or hands. She recalled other things...darker things. The emotions attached to these memories washed through her. She remembered being afraid but felt no fear.

Even still, her throat tightened when she spoke and her hands shook. When she talked about Jusik, moisture blurred her vision. Despite, accessing these memories without any emotional burden, the gaps also remained. No faces, no names, just walls of wood and stone. The lack of information frustrated her brother, the harder she tried to remember the darker the blank spots grew.

Useless.

Assad stopped asking.

Priya worked alongside the other tranquil. They supported the Inquisition by assisting the general staff and cleaning.

Being around other tranquil felt strange, quiet tolerance. Conversations were never beyond necessity, but the limited interactions calmed her. She had grown comfortable around a pair of tranquil: Lionel and Trish. They gave her directions to the different offices and helped her adjust to her new responsibilities. Twice a week they studied with the apprentice mages, researching arcane applications of magic. They also shared a monthly rotation to assist Arcanist Dagna in the Undercroft.

The dwarf spoke in excited rapid tones and had no rhythm to her workflow. The Arcanist’s work habits were unconventional and disorganized. It bothered Priya. So, she focused on the details and found the process soothing. On this particular day, Lionel was serving his time in the Undercroft and Priya would assist the kitchen staff.

The head cook was a stern face woman with olive skin, a shade different from her own. Her hair was pulled back in a vibrantly blue scarf that had accents of sweat and flour. The woman never gave a name only shoved and apron at Priya and positioned her in front of a prep table. The kitchen smelled of meat and spices. The tables were wide and scared. The three maidens working with the head cook took to their jobs with relaxed experience. Kneading dough and mixing bowls of interesting items, while they chatted amongst themselves.

“Just follow me girl.” She ordered.

Priya obeyed and watched the head cook rub herbs, roll and bind. She attempted to mimic the cook, pinching finger fulls of seasonings from the bowls before her and massaging it into the meat. Unfortunately, Priya had been a terrible cook and did not understand the spices or why they roped twine around the meat. Becoming tranquil had done nothing to improve her culinary skills.

"That's too much salt. Girl, give that to me and clean your hands!" The main cook took the pan before her. "Cut these vegetables instead. One inch chunks for this pile, fine dicing for the other."

The woman muttered to herself and Priya set to work on the pile. She understood knives. Her father taught her to appreciate the beauty of a sharp blade. When she was too young to hunt, she helped prepare the food for the clan. Afternoons spent sharing a table, cutting and cubing, listening to gossip and stories. She would sneak carrots in her pockets to share with Assad after bed time. Priya learned the faster she finished work the quicker she could return to play. It took months but eventually the blade caught less on her fingers and the chopping became second nature. The memory left a hitch in her breath, but Priya continued cutting.

"Maker's breath you're fast." the baker glanced over at the growing bowls of cubed vegetables.

"It's because she's actually focused on her job, unlike you lot." the cook snapped. "Bickering about boys and silly things."

"Yeah, Julie. Maybe we should brand your forehead."

"Yanis! You can't say things like that." the baker scolded.

Priya continued on with her work, ignoring the concerned glance Julie gave her. When the table was clear of produce five large bowls remained, piled high with perfect cubes. The smaller pile of diced garlic and other greens sat in four small containers. Her hands smelled like soup.

"I can't believe you finished already! It takes us the whole morning to get through all that." Julie said in amazement.

"Girl, can you come by tomorrow?" Yanis asked. "And every morning after that?"

"I would like that. I am proficient at cutting things." Priya said.

"Yea, that's not creepy or anything." Yanis murmured.

"Yanis!"

"Yes, please come again tomorrow. It's nice to have some capable help." The head cook glared at her helpers. "Since you've finished early, take this tray to Lady Josephine."

Josephine's office was large and open. Despite the constant bustle of people parading in and out, it was warmer than the main hall. Her desk was nestled into the back corner of the chamber, providing her the best light and vantage point to view both doorways.

There were three bookshelves that lined the stone behind her. The first two were books on history, culture, and etiquette. The third was a badly organized collection of popular fiction, poetry, and 'trashy' romance novels.

The Ambassador used the other side of the room to entertain visiting dignitaries. On more than one occasion, Priya had caught her brother sleeping in one of the chairs. Assad's exhaustion must have been extreme. As the chairs, by design were uncomfortable so that guests would not linger.

No matter the time of day all fixtures, including the fireplace remained lit. It was a well-known fact among servants that this office went through a majority of the candle supply.

Priya stood near the fireplace, awaiting acknowledgment. The last time she had brought the Ambassador mail, the woman had been so consumed in her work she jumped out of her chair. Presently, the woman was in the same hyper concentration mode and hadn't heard Priya's knocks or her entry. Priya stared into the fireplace and waited for a proper break to announce her presence.

The fireplace was old and stained with ancient burn marks. The logs shifted and sent a small flickering of red cinders up the chimney as the fire continued heat and crack the blackened wood. A clip of a memory stirred: she was sixteen, laying between her brothers' bedrolls. Telling stories and making fire dance from her fingertips. The flame never burned and always took the shape she wanted. Priya remembered the way the orange light flickered across their faces. Assad's smirking interest as he added to her story, and Jusik's feigned annoyance as shut his eyes to and pretended to sleep.

Priya's chest tightened at the memory. The tray turned unstable and she had to focus to stop the porcelain from shaking. The noise stirred the Ambassador from her work and she beckoned Priya to move closer. The woman always seemed pleased to see her. Even if it was out of professional courtesy, it was better than most reactions.

"How are you doing today, Priya?"

"I am well, Ambassador. Thank you for asking." Priya set the tray down. "I see you are busy."

"Yes, as much as I love this position some of the request we get...Well, let's just say the Inquisitor has his battles and I have mine." Josephine chuckled to herself, spinning the pen idly.

Priya nodded and went about making the tea.

"Oh! You don't have to do that." Josephine reached out to stop her.

"It is fine, Ambassador." Priya said, carefully pouring. "Steep tea for five minutes, until dark. Check for robust aroma. Half inch of cream, one sugar, stir. I am tranquil not incapable."

"I didn't mean to....yes, thank you." The Ambassador's face colored.

"You have your battles, I have mine." Priya smiled and the Antivan woman responded in kind. "Is there anything else I can attend to before I take my leave?"

"No, I'm fine. Thank you."

Priya cleaned the spoon and aligned it with the rest of the utensils on the tray, before exiting the chamber. Trish had told her smiling put others at ease, but if timed badly disturbed them. Priya tried to use her smiles sparingly and practiced in the mirror in the mornings and evenings to make it more natural. The eyes were the hardest part. Helping others, putting them at ease was something important to her.

She went about her daily chores. She delivered mail from the rookery, assisted some of the cleaning staff and ran a few small errands for Dagna. At the end of the day she took her meal in the tavern.

The tavern was three stories and fitted with new lumber. It had efficient bench seating on the bottom floor and more intimate tables on the second. The top attic remained avoided by even the drunkest patrons. There were rumors of a strange boy, which few people could remember, living up there.

The tavern served forty-two types of spirits, including something called 'hog's piss'. It didn't sound particularly appealing but was one of the soldiers' favorites. Largely in part, because it was affordable and served in a larger mug than the other ales and higher end wines. The patrons around her were drinking something sweeter that had a slight fruity note accenting the barley. It was early in the evening but her tablemates had passed beyond inebriated. For every sip taken their clothing and the table drank two.

The barmaid came around to take her order. The woman was middle-aged and worn the weight of her years with ambivalence. She had more apathy than time so she treated everyone with equal annoyance. She never smiled and always got brought the right order.

Priya tried to smile at the barmaid but it did not soothe and earned her a grunt followed by a deeper frown. The meal did not look like the food in the main hall. No neat displays or extra glaze on a fine platter. Her meal came in a blackened metal oval that looked like something the blacksmith discarded. The bread was soft and warm and tasted sweet against the meaty gravy of the stew.

The bard had taken a break from singing and idly strummed an unfamiliar tune on her lute. Priya preferred a story but as it were, the raucous conversations overpowered the music. Most tranquil liked to spend their time in the garden or library. Nice, quiet places where one's presence would be invisible and not ignored. But Priya found the loud clamoring of the pub to be comfortable and for the most part she went unnoticed.

“You couldn’t hit the side of a barn!”

A conversation exploded behind her. The voice was familiar. Priya had seen the squad before. They found their evenings at the bottom of a pint and their mornings suffering in the training yard. Two human males, one female mage, one female Qunari. She turned slightly and watched as the bickering continued.

“I don’t need to, I can just hit you.”

“Calder, if I wanted a massage I would have gone to a brothel.” The Qunari woman crowed. Her laughter was rich and loud and made her squad mate blister scarlet on top of his drunken glow.

“Why you insufferable—“

“Hey now, instead of fighting how about we make this a bit more interesting?” the mage stood up, placing a staying hand on the man.

“I don’t like where this is going.” he grumbled.

“Yeah, Calder. If you're such hot shit, why not test your merit?” the Qunari smirked.

“What, against you?” he snorted.

The women exchanged a look that exposed their outburst as staged, though their male compatriot was not in on their game.

“Aye, listen up nugshite!" The mage jumped on the table. "Call in for a silver and win fifty if you can best Calder in knife throwin!”

"Oi, wait a tick! Who's paying them fifty?"

The prospect of easy money sent patrons to work. Tables were cleared out and two targets were set up along the support beams. Drunk men and women lined up and paid to test their skills against Calder. The tavern came to life with the sound of clanging knives ricocheting off stone walls.

The Bard's lazy plucking ignited at the sudden energy buzzing around the pub. The music danced under the roaring laughter and loud jeers. With every challenger Calder's skill improved and the squad’s purse grew. He replaced his flagon of ale for water and the reddish haze on Calder’s skin lifted, as the alcohol burned from his system. Priya's heart raced as the line of challengers grew shorter. Defeated patrons cried their loss into fresh pints and cheered on new opponents. They no longer cared about their own gain or glory, and instead united their desire to see Calder fail.

“Is that it? No one else?” The mage shook the coin bag. “C'mon you shites! Fifty silvers. I’m sure his arm’s tired by now.”

Priya raised her hand, holding aloft a single silver. The pub went silent for a moment before erupting in a new level of noise. New bets circulated as they pulled her from the table and thrust the three blades into her hands.

“I’m not competing against a tranquil!” Calder scoffed. “She’s broken it’s not fair.”

“If you do not wish to compete, please return my silver.”

The mage shot him a withering look. By this point more coins had exchanged hands and bets were already in place. Calder sighed and reluctantly took his place by the bar. The man was uncomfortable standing next to her and didn't make any effort to explain the rules. She had watched the pattern enough by now that it didn't matter. They would go at the same time and see who could mark the target in the center ring. The knives were simple and little more than flat metal, but the longer hilt differed from the blades she was accustomed to.

“Here, you get a practice shot…on account of…” he glanced up at the sunburst. “…you know.”

Priya took the extra blade and tested her arm. The knife spun sickly and rebounded off the board, clattering to the ground in a sad fashion. Bad grip, not enough follow through. A few gamblers bemoaned and slumped forward, accepting their impending loss.

Calder gave her a sympathetic look. "It's not too late to back out sweetheart."

Priya took her eyes off the target to stare at him. Calder regained some of his red glow and shrugged.

"Fine, it's your coin."

Priya took the next blade and reversed her hold, tucking the tip of the blade against the knuckle of her index finger. Though her first attempt had failed, the aim had been true. The mage waved her arms, signaling them to start.

Her first knife hit the second circle but her speed was still slow. Even from her distance she could tell the blade had barely cut deep enough to lodge into the board. She adjusted again, pulling her arm back further. The second and third blades sunk into the board faster and deeper into the inner ring.

Calder had finished before her but the results were the same. Tied. Her competitor wasn't the only one who stared at her in disbelief.

“I’m not broken.” She said.

Someone retrieved the knives and placed them back in her hand. The next round was faster, with a tighter cluster in the center of the board. Again they were matched. Three more rounds had Calder sweating dark patches under his arms. Most of the gamblers were still watching, a few had long since fallen asleep in their drinks. By the time they set up the final round, her brother stood in the doorway.

Assad lingered waiting for the deciding match to begin. Disapproval painted his sun stained face and her grip waned. The first blade caught the outer ring of the target. The following two fared better but still far from their intended goal. Her slip had confused her competitor and caused him to blunder just as badly. The competition ended with a fizzle and a chorus of groans. Calder’s squad gathered their winnings into the satchel.

“The hell was that sweetheart?” Calder murmured. “You lose on purpose?”

“Enjoy your winnings.” Priya held his eyes briefly then stepped past him and left the tavern.

Assad was waiting for her. He smelled strange and had not yet changed out of his armor. Under the moonlight she could see the field patching on his coat and stains on his robes. Another eventful journey.  
He must have just returned and had gone looking for her. Perhaps Lionel had helped direct Assad to her.

"What was that?"

"I made a wager."

"You were gambling?" Assad said incredulously.

"I'm tranquil, not broken."

Assad unfolded his arms and examined her. Bags had started to form under his eyes. Assad's blue was darker than Jusik's but just as striking. His brown hair had taken on a golden hue from his traveling and his body seemed leaner than normal. The mark on his hand fizzed and crackled in the silence between them. Much like the stones that cried out, she could sense nothing beyond a strange hum.

Priya’s hands twitched and her heart quickened. This had been the longest he had looked at her since her interview in the war room. He tried to hide it but her tranquility disturbed him. Even this short conversation had broken his annoyance into grief.

"No, you're not." Assad sighed and dropped his gaze.

"I can help. I can be useful, even like this." Priya insisted.

"Priya, you are not stable..."

"That is incorrect. I cannot feel or dream. There are no distractions. I have never been this sound of mind."

"That’s an understatement.” Assad pinched the bridge of his nose. “How are we arguing, when you can’t even feel?"

"This isn’t an argument. This is a discussion. I am stating facts." She said. "I am proficient at cutting things. Our father taught us how to fight. I might not be able to access magic or emotion, but I have my physical faculties. I can be of use."

"You cannot—I'm not sending you on the battlefield like this! I don't even know what you're capable of handling in this condition and more importantly, I will not risk your life. Not after everything you've been through."

"If you don't know what I can handle then test me."

"No." Assad clenched his jaw. "I'll see what we can do about your current duties, but you're not fighting anyone. Is that clear?"

"I want to be useful."

"Is. That. Clear?"

"Yes."

Assad walked her back to her room. No other words were exchanged but it was obvious the conversation weighed on him. He pressed his forehead against her brand and cringed.

“Sleep well, sister.”

“Good night, Assad.”

The chamber was small and dark, fitted with the barest essentials. Trish slept quietly, her breathing slow and even. Priya changed into her sleep clothes and meticulously folded them into a basket by her dresser. Sheets felt cool along her skin but warmed quickly as she settled into bed. Tomorrow, she would bring him extra food and attend to her duties without deviation. She would not trouble her brother any further. Her heart beat quickened as she stared at the ceiling and felt the darkness of sleep overtake her.


	3. Chapter 3

Assad awoke in his bed and groaned. The last thing he remembered was staring into the fire in Josie's office. His squad had returned from the Hinterlands and all he wanted was a hot bath and sleep. Instead he argued with his sister and sulked in the Ambassador’s office. Cullen must have found and relocated him.

With great effort, he rolled on his side and set of a chain reaction of spasms. After a quick inspection he found all of his traveling gear in place, save his dirt caked boots. Spell book, potions, and daggers were belted in place. Silently Assad cursed the Commander’s ridiculous personal boundaries, as if removing a utility belt and outer armor would have somehow violated the sleeping elf. The Dalish did not share the Chantry’s strict ideals about nudity, the clan bathed together, young and old. Nudity was just flesh, nothing inherently shameful or strange about it. Perhaps, this wasn’t a religious issue, maybe Cullen slept in his armor and assumed everyone did the same. 

Assad shifted his legs over the side of the bed and removed his gear. Relief and new found aches throbbed deep in his muscles. He would impress upon the Commander how painful it was to sleep on glass vials. Not that it would do much good. No doubt Cullen would respond with something cheeky like: "If you have issue with how you're put to bed perhaps you should do it yourself, Inquisitor.’ and Assad would make a flirtatious remark about the man’s capable hands. Then Cullen would blush and rub the back of his neck and probably feed him to Josie. Assad frowned at the thought. Suddenly, sleeping on glass vials seemed a small price to pay if it saved him from another two hour lecture about decorum. 

It wasn’t his fault he slept everywhere but his room. They decided to give him this obscene cage of glass and stone. Assad had grown accustomed to traveling in the caravan with limited personal space and hard ground. All this softness and space was bizarre. Everything in this grand bedroom was plush and dyed, the sheets, the bed, the fucking carpet. He might not be a complete savage but he couldn’t understand this decadence. He hated the isolation of the tower and preferred Josie’s office or Dorian’s chair. Uncomfortable and in the heart of everything. 

It had been months since he had been in this chamber. He expected a thick layer of dust and maybe a rat or two but the maids had kept everything neat and tidy. The sheets smelled clean and the candles had been replaced. His desk was neatly organized, save for the growing pile of reports and documents he never had the energy to read. Fatigue nipped at the raw insides of his eyelids. The soft warmth of his ridiculous bed called to him and for a moment Assad debated nesting in the silkened sheets and sleeping through breakfast.

"Inquisitor?" a familiar voice called from the stairwell. Sleep would have to wait.

"Yes, I'm up." Assad mumbled into his hands, sighing at the missed opportunity. “How can I help you Comma—“

The Commander appeared at the top of the stairway, his hair slick back and his armor in pristine order, balancing a silver breakfast tray.The words died in Assad's mouth and rose again as a roar of laughter.

"Commander, I didn't know this was part of your job description!" Assad's smile grew wider as he fought back another bark of laughter. "Creators, you put me to bed and you bring me breakfast? The Commander and the Inquisitor, oh how the tongues will wag!"

"Inquisitor Lavellan…" Cullen set the tray down beside the lounging couch and tried to ignore the rising heat on his neck.

"Shall I be expecting this sort of service every morning? Maybe we should get you a nice little apron." Assad continued.

“Inquisitor…” his lips were flattening into an unamused line.

“I’m thinking something red to match the rest of your armor.”

"Your sis--one of the servants thought you would be hungry and provided me with this tray."

Assad almost missed the slip but felt the mirth drain from his face. Cullen brightened in embarrassment and glanced sheepishly at the high ceiling. Assad took the opportunity to slip on a neutral face. The inner circle already had enough to worry about, with demons and gods trying to tear the world apart. One deformed elf was nothing in the grand scheme. His family, his burden. 

"Thank you for delivering it, Commander." Assad stood from the bed with a tight groan.

Cullen frowned and contemplated his next words. Assad could tell the Commander wanted to broach the subject, wanted to make sure that everything was okay, that the slip hadn’t sent the Inquisitor into a mental tailspin. But there was nothing Cullen could say to put him into a tailspin because Assad had never recovered. 

Instead, Assad had become proficient at hiding emotions but the darkness was never far. There were nights his brother would climb down from his hooks and whisper murder into his ears. During judgements Jusik would stand in the corner of his eyesight and chant destruction or plead for justice. Cullen had nothing to fear, a reminder that his sister was little more than a husk of a person, would not break the Inquisitor. There were worse things crawling around his brain.

"What's on the agenda for today?" Assad smiled. 

"Actually, I was hoping to convince you to take the day off." 

Assad shook his head in disbelief. "Sorry, I'm still half asleep. I could have sworn you told a joke." 

"You've been throwing yourself into work ever since...I-I just thought, you could stand a few days of rest before Josephine buried you in paperwork." Cullen scratched the back of his neck.

"That's rich coming from you." Assad murmured. "Your idea of a vacation is doing paperwork. When was the last time you took a day off?” 

“Perhaps, we can take a day off together.” He suggested, amiably. 

“Together?” Assad’s brow rose. 

“A bit of chess over breakfast.” Cullen continued ignoring the growing smirk on his superior’s face.

“My, my. You’re so forward this morning.”

It had been non-stop since he had brought Priya to Skyhold. The last seven months had become a blur of blood and negotiations. The first few weeks after burning the farmhouse, every moment of rest was plagued by horrific images. The rapid schedule helped occupy his mind but months of this speed had finally caught up and he could feel exhaustion settling into his bones. The idea of getting through a meal undisturbed, sleeping a full day, or playing a game sounded exquisite. 

"Alright Commander." he resigned. "Do I have a chess board up here? Of course I do. Why wouldn't I?"

The breakfast tray had an assortment of meats. Assad recognized it as a Fereldan breakfast: a thick flank of beef, a pile of egg, and four fat sausages accompanied by cubed potatoes. The Dalish never had such an assortment of animal flesh. The Clan divided meat among the camp, larger portions going to the hunters and warriors, being a mage Assad rarely saw much. 

Admittedly, having such abundance and variety available had been an appreciated change, but he still preferred leaner options. Assad served himself most of the egg and half of a sausage and left the rest for the Commander. Priya had also provided some fresh cut fruit and bowl of cooked vegetables and broth. The taste was clean and bland, like she used to prepare. The meal was almost pleasant. Assad couldn't think of a time before this when he had sat with any of his advisors so casually. Even conversations with Josie wound back to the Inquisition. 

"You're sure you've never played this game?" Cullen’s lips quirked as he examined the board.

"Maybe you're just an excellent teacher." Assad shrugged and claimed another of Cullen’s pieces.

“Yes, I’m sure that’s it.” Cullen shook his head. "If only all my students were like you."

"If all your students were like me you'd be out of a job. Don't worry the Inquisition will always have use for a pretty face. How does being my personal manservant sound?"

"Awful. You're surprisingly heavy."

"Yes, well when you leave all my gear on it's bound to add weight. I'm surprised you didn't lay my staff on me." Assad grumbled.

"One should always be prepared for an attack." Cullen knocked two pieces from the board and sat back smugly. 

"Yet, you removed my boots. You expected me to do battle without shoes?"

"Funny, I thought you were Dalish."

“I cannot believe it!” Assad’s eyes widened in feigned insult. “The Commander of the Inquisition, perpetuating stereotypes. Wait till the Ambassador hears this." 

Assad shifted another piece and claimed the board. The score between them was even now and they quietly reset the pieces. A comfortable air had settled in between them. For all his teasing, Assad admired the Commander. It was clear the man had demons from his past but he was working to create a new name for himself. Like the armor he religiously donned, the indomitable warrior image he projected didn’t quite fit. Much like Assad, Cullen knew how to put on a good face. Most people missed the dark bags, faint gray of exhaustion, and the occasional cluster of perspiration along his perfect hairline. Despite, the high expectations for himself, Cullen still advanced and made sure those around him did the same. 

“I appreciate you going through the trouble of feeding me.” Assad said.

“I only brought it, Inquisitor. Though, I’m not sure you could have finished this tray by yourself.” 

“Oh I was referring to your pieces and pride, Cullen.” He taunted. “I’m sure this next victory, will be just as delicious.” 

“Getting ahead of ourselves are we?” Cullen chuckled. 

Assad hesitated over a knight. The creature’s eyes were especially fierce, ever watchful of the battlefield. He turned the ivory sculpted piece in his hand and contemplated the smooth details of the stern horse head. 

 

“Contemplating your impending loss, Inquisitor?” the Commander interrupted. “What happened to all that confidence?” 

“I assure you, my confidence is overflowing.” Assad smirked and set the piece down. “How do you know I wasn’t constructing your defeat?”

“Your brows knit when you play but the corner of your mouth twitches when you’re thinking.”

So he had caught that? There were times he forgot just how observant the ex-templar was. Assad leaned forward, curling his lips into a wry smile.

“I was unaware you spent so much time analyzing my face, Commander.” Assad purred. “You can take a closer look if you like. I’m certain my mouth can show you many things.” 

“The only thing I want from your mouth are the words: ‘You win, Commander.’” 

“And would you like that in a breathy moan or…” 

Cullen threw a disapproving look at him, obviously more upset with himself for stepping into such an easy trap. Assad chuckled to himself and adjusted the tower beside his knight. They had been playing all morning, sacrificing pieces to protect their queens. Pawns, knights, towers... 

“My clan has no experience with tranquil. So, these past few months have been...educational.” Assad smoothed a finger along the edge of the board. “Have you ever heard of a tranquil warrior? Is it even possible?”

“No, Inquisitor. I can’t say I have.” Cullen’s eyes widened at the question. “A tranquil will protect themselves but I’ve never heard of any of them fighting without provocation. We’re not hurting for soldiers. Pilgrims have been flocking to Skyhold ever since Haven. If you’re concerned about--”

“I understand. You’ve been doing a fine job with our troops. That’s not why I asked.” Assad frowned and ran a hand through his dark hair. “My sister wants to be useful. She wants to fight. When she was—before the brand, Priya enjoyed helping others and protecting the weak. My father taught us how to fight, but she was better suited to the physicalities than I was.” His mouth started to dry and the words strained in his throat. “Most of the tranquil seem content to their small duties. I thought I was doing what was best for her but Priya seems restless.”

"No matter how it seems, tranquil cannot feel. Your sister is--"

"I know. I know." Assad paused. "Sometimes, I wonder if the blade would have been kinder. Keeping her around like this...is selfish. I don’t know if she would want to live this way."

"Tranquil can still live a full life." Cullen reassured.

"What fullness can she have like this?" Assad laughed bitterly. "If she were your sister, would you have spared the blade?"

"I cannot say." A flash of anguish broke the professional mask and Assad immediately felt shame.

“I apologize, Commander. That was over the line.” 

“No, Inquisitor. It’s fine. I will try to answer in whatever way my ability allows.”

It was not okay. The grief that slipped to the surface was complex and mirrored the depth of his own. The room absorbed the heavy tension and they stumbled through their final game with lackluster effort. The answers had not validated the actions, Assad already knew Priya’s behavior was abnormal for someone in her state. Despite wanting to bear this on his own, he now had involved Cullen. Perhaps Cassandra was a better option. Seekers also had experience with tranquil and at least any further questioning could be framed as a general inquiry, instead of Priya specific. 

“Inquisitor?” a messenger tentatively hovered at the top of the stairs.

“Yes, come in.” Assad waved the man in. 

“T-Thank you.” He bowed and then hazard a nervous glance at Cullen. “C-Commander the Ambassador would like to see you.”

“So much for a day off.” Assad mumbled, offering an apologetic grin. 

Cullen mirrored the false smile. “Yes, perhaps we can finish this game another day?”

“I would like that Commander.” 

Cullen replaced his warrior persona and once again became the picture of military excellence, eyes fierce and vigilant. He inclined his head in a slight bow, resting a hand over the pommel of his sword, and took his leave. The messenger remained, waiting until the outer door shut before retrieving a folded bundle of papers. 

“More paperwork from the Ambassador?” Assad asked taking the stack. 

“No, ser. Iron Bull says it’s time for your lesson.”


End file.
